


A Righteous Man

by salishseaselkie



Series: Of Lambs and Lions [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fluff, Lyrium Withdrawal, Religion, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5746174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salishseaselkie/pseuds/salishseaselkie





	A Righteous Man

The first night Niamh woke up to Cullen’s nightmares, Niamh hadn’t realized it was due to the withdrawals.

She had woken up and shook him awake. “Cullen? Cullen!” When he ripped from his dreams, he had flailed his arm around and almost struck her. She ducked just in time.

“Maker!” His eyes were wild as they flew open, and when they had settled on her, he could only admonish himself.“Niamh…are you hurt? Andraste, I didn’t…” She shook her head no, but she noticed the sheen of sweat that lined his brow and the ragged condition of his exhales.

When he had realized she was uninjured, when he had realized he could have injured her, he had buried his face in his hands. “Maybe I shouldn’t sleep here,” but the tone in his voice was pained, and she had felt needed more than put off. She had scooted closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. He had flinched, but had not pulled away.

“Tell me what you saw.” So he did. And she realized what the dreams were.

The second time she woke to his nightmares, they were in his tower. She had not woken him outright, but closed on him, drawing him out of his fright with a caressing embrace and soft kisses on his hairline, instead of abruptly bringing him to. He had stirred, hands hesitantly accepting her affections, arms slowly encircling her. He wept that night, wishing the dreams would stop, wishing he had never joined the Order. Niamh had not cried herself, not then, and he had not allowed himself to cry afterwards, but Niamh spent her time wondering what was so terrible that he had such terrors in his dreams.

She watched him as he wandered the halls in the days after, wondering what monsters lurk in the shadows for him, what evils he sees when he slumbers. She wondered how she might be of use to him, how she could help him overcome the nightmares. She drew a blank with every passing moment. With every passing moment, she felt more and more useless.

The third time she wakes up to his nightmares, she’s scared to wake him, afraid he will cry again, afraid she won’t be enough to soothe him. But she works herself up to it, telling herself that he cannot be allowed to endure the terrors in the Fade, telling herself trying is better than nothing. She strokes his hair and puts her lips to his forehead, kissing each worry line, brushing away the tears that squeeze from his closed eyes, and murmuring, “ _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written_.” Niamh herself is not an overly enthusiastic Andrastian, and she has never been fully convinced that she herself is Andraste’s prophet, but she knows Cullen believes, and the Chant of Light will ground him against the demons that prey upon him in his sleep.

Though he does not wake, he mutters, “Mmm…mm, righteous…not…righteous…mm…hmm…not me.” Niamh feels her brow crinkle forward, sorrowed by his lack of self-worth. There is no man in all of Thedas with more virtue than the one she holds in her arms. How could he be so hard on himself?

Then she remembers: the demons he sees are what he fears to become, what he fears he _was_ …what he fears he already is. It is present in his every movement: so tight and controlled, carefully thought out, restrained to the point of pain. Even his words to himself are a reprimand, self-deprecating in every syllable. It cannot be allowed to continue. If his break with the Order is to be successful, he must break with his guilt and his self-loathing as well. In that moment, she takes it upon herself to push him in that direction.

Instead of waking him to convince him of his honor, she merely kisses his furrowed brow and whispers, “You are, Cullen. _You_ are righteous. _You_ stand before the wicked and do not falter. _You_ are a champion of the just. _You_ are _my_ light in the shadow.” Though he does not wake, she continues. She knows it will be his war to wage, his to win or lose, but she will be there for him, either way. So she continues until his wordless murmurs are silent, until his twitches die down, and until her eyes weigh so heavily that there is nothing left to do but succumb to a dreamless sleep. She continues until she is sure that he has heard just how much he is worth.


End file.
